


Whole in Your Heart

by 1848pianist



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Canon Universe, Drunk Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Guilt, Heavy Angst, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion to the Rescue, M/M, Metaphors for Mental Illness, Romantic Friendship, Self-Harm, Severe Depression but Make it Fantasy, Suicide Attempt, The Witcher Lore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:00:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28065855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1848pianist/pseuds/1848pianist
Summary: An otherwise ordinary encounter with bandits on the road turns into something more when Geralt begins acting strangely, not sleeping and showing up from hunts with injuries he hasn't dressed. Jaskier knows something is very wrong, but he can't get Geralt to talk about it--or much of anything else.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 20
Kudos: 183
Collections: Abby's Witcher Collection





	Whole in Your Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Please check the warnings, as this fic contains a variety of forms of self-harm and heavy discussion of suicide.
> 
> This story hinges on a surprise reveal, but if you want to know what's going on ahead of time you can skip to the end notes.

The day is hot and bright, and Jaskier is well and truly ready for a cold mug of ale and a bath, which is why he doesn’t notice the advancing band of rogues until they are almost upon them. By then, Geralt has already dismounted from Roach and sent her running for the treeline.

“Get down!”

Geralt pushes him out of the way one-handed, drawing his sword with the other. Jaskier sprawls to the side and rolls with the momentum of the shove, scrambling to relative safety behind a nearby boulder. Once hidden, he keeps his eyes firmly shut. He doesn’t regret that Geralt will more than likely kill these bandits – _they_ attacked first, after all, and they didn’t seem about to ask for their purses nicely – but he prefers to avoid seeing human innards whenever possible.

He hears the cold _snik_ of a blade through flesh, then a shriek, and finally a rattling moan. A dull thud, followed by a sharp intake of breath that sounds like Geralt. Then silence.

“Geralt?”

Jaskier receives no reply. He opens his eyes, but he doesn’t yet dare poke his head above the rock. Perhaps there’s an archer hidden in the bushes that Geralt is creeping up on.

But the seconds drag on into a minute, then two.

“Geralt?” Jaskier tries again. Cautiously, fully prepared to duck back behind the boulder if necessary, he peers around the side of the rock.

Geralt has collapsed in the middle of the road, surrounded by four bloody corpses.

“Oh, fuck. Geralt. Geralt!”

Jaskier scrambles over to him and shakes his shoulder. Immediately, the one rational part of his mind left realizes that Geralt is warm and breathing, but it takes another moment for the rest of him to catch up.

“Geralt—shit, can you hear me?”

Geralt is limp and unresponsive in his arms, but there’s no sign of blood on him, no head wounds or arrows sticking out of his armor that Jaskier can see. _The elixirs?_ he thinks, but before he can consider what kind of potion might revive him, Geralt jerks awake with a gasp. For an instant, the expression on his face is one of pure horror.

“Oh, thank the gods,” Jaskier says. “Are you hurt? What happened? I came out from behind the rock and you were just lying there—”

Geralt winces suddenly, shielding his eyes, though the day is overcast and dreary.

“Fuck, that’s bright.”

“You must’ve been knocked in the head after all,” Jaskier says. “Can you walk? Maybe sit under those trees?”

Geralt blinks, moving his arms and legs experimentally. He seems to be all in one piece.

“I think so.”

With Jaskier’s help, he’s able to stand and stagger the few paces to the side of the road. He slumps down against one of the trunks and rests his head on his knees.

Jaskier shakes his shoulder.

“Hey. Stay awake, all right?”

“I’m not sleeping. It’s just damned bright out here.”

Jaskier frowns. “Let me have a look.”

He tilts Geralt’s chin up, turning his face to look for signs of injury. He doesn’t see any, not a scratch.

“Strange. Does it hurt?”

Geralt shakes his head. “No pain. Just feel...disoriented.”

“Do you remember getting hit?”

“I didn’t. It came afterwards, after the last man fell. Like—”

He trails off suddenly, a line of worry or concentration appearing between his brows.

“Like what?”

“Nothing. I’m all right. Whatever it was, it’s fading.”

“Are you sure? You seem a little...”

“I’m fine. Just keep an eye on me, for a little while. In case it is a concussion.”

Jaskier is certain something is still off, but perhaps it is only an odd blow to the head. “Well, all right. If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure. Let’s keep going.”

The rest of the journey passes without incident. Geralt seems like his normal self – quiet, but that’s nothing out of the ordinary – and they reach the next town just before dusk.

“Ooh, Geralt, look,” Jaskier says, pointing out the notice posted on one of the inns in the town square. “Roast duck.”

Geralt raises an eyebrow at him.

“Oh, come on. After the day we’ve had, we deserve a treat, don’t we?”

Geralt shrugs. “Why not.” He sends Jaskier to find them a table while he sees to Roach in the stables. By the time he follows him in, Jaskier has already started to catch the crowd’s attention with a new ballad while they await the food.

Geralt certainly doesn’t seem concussed, whatever’s going on. Jaskier can’t put his finger on it, but there’s something strange about him all evening. He eats, true, though maybe not as much as usual, and he seems barely to pay attention to what he puts in his mouth. He _hmm_ s and nods at all the right places in Jaskier’s stories, which is a bit unusual in itself, but Jaskier isn’t fully convinced he’s actually listening. But he isn’t very well going to complain that Geralt seems _too_ interested in his conversation.

They stay up later than they typically would just so Jaskier can be sure Geralt is all right. Something about the whole incident still bothers him a great deal, but, unable to find anything actually wrong, he finally relents and allows them to go to bed.

He stays awake long after Geralt has fallen asleep and listens for any change in his breathing, just in case, but his eyes must drift shut eventually, because he’s woken abruptly by Geralt’s shout of alarm. He bolts upright, looking around wildly.

“What? Geralt, what’s wrong?”

Next to him, Geralt is lying rigid, eyes wide, jaw clenched. A breath hisses through his teeth.

“What is it?”

Geralt twitches when Jaskier touches his arm, then seems to come to his senses.

“Renfri—No, don’t—”

Jaskier realizes then that the threat is not in their room but in Geralt’s dreams. Geralt had told him about Renfri once a long time ago, when he’d asked why he seemed to dislike the Butcher of Blaviken nickname so intensely. He has long since suspected that Geralt still has nightmares about the incident. Until now, though, he’s never been certain, as Geralt outright refuses to speak about his dreams. Then again, they aren’t often so powerful as to wake both him and Jaskier in the middle of the night.

Gradually, Geralt’s body relaxes, his breathing coming back under control. He sits up slowly, shoulder-to-shoulder with Jaskier.

“Bad dreams?” Jaskier asks hesitantly.

He can only just make out Geralt’s face in the dark, but it seems the Witcher’s eyes close for a moment.

“Bad dreams,” he replies.

“Anything I can do?”

Geralt’s answer is sharp and immediate. “No.”

“I assume you don’t want to talk about it.”

“No.”

“All right, then.” Jaskier sighs and lies back down on the mattress, assuming Geralt just wants space. “I’m going back to sleep. Wake me if you need to.”

Geralt doesn’t answer, but then Jaskier didn’t really expect him to.

When he wakes the next morning, Geralt is already awake and packing up their belongings. Jaskier has a strong suspicion that he’s the only one who got any more sleep last night.

“Good morning,” he says tentatively.

Geralt looks up, and Jaskier can immediately sense he’s in a mood – due to lack of sleep, most likely. His expression is no different from usual, but his shoulders are tensed and his movements slightly sharper than normal.

“We should get going,” he says, handing Jaskier his pack. There’s a trickle of blood on the inside of his wrist.

Jaskier grabs his hand. “Hey. You’re bleeding.”

He rolls up Geralt’s sleeve before he can pull away and looks at the mark on the inside of his forearm.

“Gods above. One of those bandits _bit_ you!”

Geralt snatches his hand back.

“It’s nothing.”

“It’s a good thing you’re immune to rabies, I guess. I mean. You are, aren’t you?”

Geralt shoots him a look. “Yes.”

“Well, that’s one less thing to worry about, anyway.”

“Those men were desperate for coin, not rabid.”

Jaskier supposes there’s no point in pointing out that he’s joking when Geralt is clearly in no mood for humor.

“Their bad fortune to have attacked a witcher, then.”

“Mm.”

Rather than improving, Geralt’s mood only seems to darken over the course of the day. He doesn’t snap at Jaskier, at least, just pulls his hood up to provide some cover from the hot sun and retreats into silence.

It isn’t that such ill humor is out of character, per se – whatever Geralt might insist to the contrary about witchers not having emotions, Jaskier is well versed in his bleaker moods, which sometimes flare up more or less unprovoked. But the combination of this state and whatever occurred with the bandits yesterday strikes Jaskier as more than a coincidence.

“Are you certain we shouldn’t be looking for a healer?” he asks when they stop for the night.

“Why? I’m not hurt.”

“If you say so.”

He watches as Geralt slides further from irritability into melancholy over the course of the evening. Neither dinner nor the prospect of a warm bed at an inn seem to improve things. Jaskier eventually leaves him to his own devices, figuring that whatever it is that’s bothering him will have to run its course. In the meantime, he might as well make them some coin while he has a chance. He stays in the main hall long after Geralt has gone to bed, trying to focus on his songs rather than his friend.

Geralt’s nightmares return in full force that night, and then the next night, and the next. Each time he categorically refuses Jaskier’s help and insists he go back to sleep, and each morning he looks a little more exhausted and on edge than the day before.

Then Geralt starts to leave him behind in the nearest town while he hunts more often than not, so the only version of him that Jaskier sees is the silent, sleep-deprived one in the mornings. Jaskier considers asking directly to come along or at least trying to convince Geralt to talk to him more than once, but he fears that if he does, Geralt will push him away even further, maybe even tell him to leave. He still can’t see how the incident with the bandits is connected to Geralt’s dreams and bad temper, but he’s increasingly certain that _something_ happened, something Geralt refuses to acknowledge or talk about with him.

 _At least we’ve coin to spare_ _these days_ , he thinks wearily. Thanks to all the time he’s spent performing lately, they have a great deal more money than usual. Not that they find much use for it beyond basic survival. Geralt no longer has any interest in drinking with Jaskier or, indeed, anything that requires spending coin beyond bare subsistence.

As the weeks drag on, Geralt’s mood seems to affect his work as well. While he continues to find and fulfill contracts, Jaskier notices nearly every morning some new cut or wound Geralt hadn’t bothered to dress properly the night before. This bothers Jaskier more than anything else, for Geralt is usually meticulous about cleaning and binding up injuries. A witcher’s health is his job security, after all.

Jaskier keeps running an old conversation through his mind, one when he asked Geralt if witchers ever retire.

 _Yeah, when they slow and get killed_ , Geralt’s voice reminds him. Jaskier begins to have nightmares too, dreams where Geralt goes off to fight a monster and never comes back.

Finally, Jaskier stops Geralt as they’re preparing to go their separate ways for the day.

“Looking for another contract?”

“Mm.”

“This is, what? Your fourth this week?”

“What’s your point?”

Jaskier forces himself to keep his tone light. “Just that you’ll be working yourself out of a job soon. There won’t be any monsters left. Have you thought about taking a break? Just a day or two? I’ve been hired to perform at a naming ceremony – a naming ceremony, of all things – but I’ll be back tonight.”

“Hm.”

“Besides, it’s not as if we need the money. Our finances have never looked better, frankly. We could have the evening off.”

“I’ll think about it. See you tonight, Jaskier.”

“All right.” He puts his hand on Geralt’s shoulder as he passes. “Whatever you do, you should dress those wounds. Try to come back in one piece. Please.”

Geralt shrugs him off. “I’ll be fine. I always am.”

“If you say so.”

“Save it, Jaskier,” Geralt growls, walking out without a backwards glance. Jaskier, filled with unease, watches him go and says nothing.

*

The contract is nothing difficult. A band of nekkers has been harassing villagers on the edge of town, and by the sound of it, there can’t be more than six of them. Easy coin that Geralt would be grateful for under any other circumstances.

He finds the nest with little trouble, littered as it is with trinkets and baubles stolen from the village. At present, it’s empty, so he decides to wait. Unusual as it is for nekkers to venture out in the middle of the day, it’s not unheard of. He leans against a nearby tree out of sight of the nest, silver sword in one hand as he shields his eyes from the sun with the other.

The voice starts up within minutes. Geralt ignores it, shaking it off as he would a fly.

_Did you intend to kill her, witcher? Or was it merely a reflex? Destruction comes so naturally to your kind, after all._

He grits his teeth and tries to clear his mind, hoping that meditation will grant him some reprieve.

_Or perhaps you killed her in cold blood. As you killed the bandits, who you knew sought only coin to feed themselves. How many deaths are on your hands? Do you even know?_

It doesn't work. To distract himself, he sets about checking over his armor, adjusting his gauntlets and the buckles on his scabbards. He has no need for a voice needling him about Renfri’s death, not when his own thoughts are still more than reminder enough.

 _And what about the bard? What makes you think_ you _can protect him?_

“Shut up,” Geralt growls, feeling wretched. As though he hadn't dreamed a thousand times about all the ways Jaskier could die, long before all of this.

 _How many nekker_ _contracts_ _make up for a human life_?

Geralt no longer knows whether the thought comes from the voice or his own mind, and perhaps it makes no difference in the end. He realizes that in gritting his teeth, he’s bitten down on his own tongue, and spits the blood out on the dirt and yellowing leaves.

"There," he says to the surrounding trees. "Is that what you want?"

If Geralt ever thought that his witcher’s training granted him some protection against monsters which prey upon the mind, he has long since learned otherwise. When he killed its original host, the hym dug its claws into him as easily as if he’d been an ordinary man, one with no knowledge of monsters or magic. Knowing what’s happening to him doesn’t help; it only makes him more certain of the situation’s hopelessness.

He’d resolved immediately not to tell Jaskier. When the time comes, better to let the bard believe he died in the course of his work. Let him mourn and perhaps get a song or two out of the whole sorry situation. Let him move on with his life.

If Geralt was a better person yet, he would ask Jaskier to leave and spare him witnessing whatever is to follow.

But then, if Geralt was a better person, the hym wouldn’t have attached itself to him in the first place.

Nearby, a rustling in the brush alerts him to the nekkers’ return. Outside of the village, they are bold, crashing through the undergrowth without bothering to conceal their steps. Banishing thoughts of the hym, Geralt stalks silently towards the nest, hoping to catch them all before they go to ground.

He has surprise to his advantage, and there are only five of them. The first two fall to his sword before the others have even realized the danger. But the nekkers are swift little creatures, and one manages to slip behind his guard while the other two charge head-on.

Unfortunately for it, a lone nekker is no match for a witcher created and trained to kill monsters. As soon as he cuts down the first two in their futile attack, Geralt turns and skewers the last one as it prepares to leap up behind him. The clearing falls silent again, only a few seconds after the fight began.

Geralt reaches out to free his sword from the husk of the last nekker and blinks, startled by the sight of blood dripping down his fingers. Red, human blood, not the sticky black ichor of nekkers. He feels as though he’s caught a blow to the chest, even as his mind tells him the blood is an illusion brought on by the hym.

He can smell it, though. It flows with all the viscosity of the real thing, caking his gloves as it dries, dark and rust-scented.

 _Snap out of it_ , he commands himself. _Get a hold of yourself_. He forces himself to take his sword and walk out of the clearing. Keep moving.

Every one of his muscles and joints aches with each step. The nekkers posed no danger, but the punishing pace he’s kept up these past few weeks has taken its toll. He’s driven himself to the point of exhaustion, knowing that if he lets up the hym will come roaring back at full force. But this can’t keep up forever.

He collects his coin and heads back to the inn, hoping that maybe, exhausted as he is, he’ll be able to catch an hour’s sleep. He might even take Jaskier’s advice and clean the scratches on his arms. Geralt knows the likelihood of infection grows by the day—perversely, he even hopes for it, thinking that, finally, might be enough to satisfy the hym.

He is tired. Tired of his own company and circling thoughts. Tired of stumbling from day to day sleepless, bruised, and haunted. Tired of knowing all the while that tomorrow will be no better and no easier.

The more exhausted he is, the less likely he is to sleep, for the less strength he has to fight the hym’s whispered commands. It urges him to rend his skin, ignore his hunger, tear at his flesh, pay for the blood he’s spilled with his own until he is raw and weak and bloodless.

It’s still early. Jaskier will not be back for hours. Geralt wishes the nekkers had put up more of a fight, as he cannot bear the evening trapped within his own head.

But then, he has more than enough coin to drink himself stupid before then.

He expects it to take some time, given his witcher's metabolism, but it has been weeks since he slept or ate properly. These days he eats only when Jaskier is around, and then only enough to keep his suspicions at bay. The world begins to blur pleasantly after only a couple of pints. Soon after, his thoughts jumble into meaningless words, unintelligible and easy to ignore, as long as he keeps drinking.

He doesn’t even notice Jaskier coming in until the bard is standing right in front of him.

“Hello, Geralt. Starting without me?”

Geralt kicks the leg of the chair across the table from him, attempting to indicate that Jaskier should sit down. Instead, the chair flies back and topples over several feet behind Jaskier.

“Oh. Didn’t mean t’—Sorry.”

Jaskier looks at the chair, then back to Geralt, amused. “Are you drunk?”

“And how.”

The corners of Jaskier’s mouth twitch. “I guess I don’t have to ask what you did all day, then.”

“Come drink with me.”

Jaskier’s smile turns blinding. “Gladly.” He retrieves the chair Geralt kicked over, waving at the nearest barmaid.

“How was the, the um…”

“Naming ceremony. My, is that a family with some unresolved issues. I pity the child who has to grow up in it. But they paid well enough. How was your contract?”

The image of his hands coated in blood flashes through Geralt’s mind, but he shoves it away as quick as it arises.

“Fine. Nothing exciting.”

“For once, I’m glad of it.”

Jaskier orders drinks for both of them, flashing his teeth at the maid, and turns back to Geralt. He looks tired, but radiant in the way he always does after a successful performance. His doublet is open at the collar and Geralt can just see a hint of his clavicle and the hollow of his throat.

“You seem…” Jaskier tilts his head, searching for the right word, “happier.”

“Why shouldn’t I be?”

“No reason. It’s just been a difficult couple of months, is all. You know, most people get gloomy when they’re in their cups.”

“Maybe they’re just not doing it right.”

“That’ll be it.” Jaskier raises the glass the barmaid sets by his elbow. “To feeling better, then.”

He downs his drink in one, then looks up at Geralt.

“I have quite a ways to go if I’m to catch up with you.”

“Better get started, then.”

Soon, Jaskier’s face and throat are flushed all the way down to the collar of his shirt. His eyes are no longer tired, but bright with wine, and he laughs at the slightest provocation. The room has begun to fill around them, growing noisy and hot.

“I’m tired of shouting,” Jaskier finally admits. “Let’s see if they’ll sell us a few bottles and retire to a quieter location, shall we?”

“Yes.”

Geralt’s senses and thoughts are pleasantly dulled, the chatter of the other patrons fading to a low roar, and everything in his field of vision has dissolved into vague shapes and candlelight, save for Jaskier.

Their room is dark and inviting as they collapse onto one of the beds, Jaskier cradling the wine as he finishes telling Geralt a story about some bardic competition or another. Geralt had been listening, but Jaskier’s stories can be difficult to follow even while sober, and now his head is resting on Geralt’s shoulder and his hair smells like wildflowers. Geralt is so tired, but now he might finally, finally be able to sleep without dreaming.

Jaskier takes a drink straight from the bottle and then twists around to look at Geralt, trying to pass him the wine. Geralt ignores the bottle and reaches up to brush Jaskier’s jaw with his fingertips instead. He only has to bend forward a matter of inches to kiss him.

Jaskier sighs happily, leaning into him.

 _I shouldn’t be doing this_ , some rational corner left in Geralt’s brain thinks.

Jaskier breaks the kiss long enough to set the wine out of the way and turn to face Geralt more comfortably, which puts him almost in Geralt’s lap. He wraps his hand around the back of Geralt’s neck and pulls him in close again.

This isn’t the first time they’ve done this. Geralt has always known Jaskier found him attractive, though Jaskier could probably find the sexual appeal in a piece of driftwood. When Jaskier had first kissed him drunkenly, years ago, Geralt had hesitated, not wanting to permanently alter their friendship. But little had changed afterwards. Sex simply became one of the things they did together, like the times Jaskier washed Geralt’s hair or rubbed salve on his wounds. Geralt assumes it means nothing more than that to Jaskier and tries to enjoy it for what it is.

Tonight, though, he doesn’t stop his mind wandering when it turns to thoughts of something more with Jaskier. He imagines telling him everything, asking him to stay with him, inviting him to winter with him at Kaer Morhen. Telling him he loves him, if he is capable of loving anything.

Would Jaskier laugh, or simply let him down easy, explaining that he isn’t looking to settle down, and certainly not with a witcher of all things? Knowing Jaskier, he might even apologize for misleading Geralt unintentionally.

Jaskier turns his head to plant a line of kisses along Geralt’s jaw.

“What’s the matter?”

“What?”

“You went all quiet again.”

“Sorry. Just thinking.”

“Hmm. Usually best not to. What about?”

“That I’ve missed...this.” _You_.

Jaskier leans back a little, keeping his arms around Geralt’s neck. “Is everything all right?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

Geralt tries to lean in to kiss him again, but Jaskier turns his face away.

“I don’t just mean right now, this moment. Is everything all right, you know, generally?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Geralt reaches for the wine and takes a long pull, but he knows it’s too late. The hym is already stirring, sensing pain like a wolf sniffing out its prey. “Can’t we just—”

“No, Geralt. You’ve been acting strangely for weeks now. It’s starting to scare me. What’s going on?”

“Nothing’s going on.”

“ _Geralt_.”

“I can’t talk about it, Jaskier. Don’t ask me to.”

“Geralt…”

He tries again. “I know I haven’t treated you well lately. Let me make it up to you.”

Jaskier puts his hands on Geralt’s shoulders, holding him at arms length. “Hey, no. I don’t want you to make anything up to me. I just want you to be all right.”

Geralt meets his eyes, and Jaskier is no longer bright and smiling, but pale and worried-looking.

 _That’s_ _done it_ , he thinks. _I’ve ruined it_. He untangles himself from Jaskier and stands up, though the room sways around him.

“Where are you going?”

“You take the bed. I’ll sleep on the floor. Goodnight, Jaskier.”

“What? No—wait. Don’t do this. Listen, we don’t have to talk about...whatever’s going on. Just come back to bed.”

“I’ll be fine.” In truth, his chest aches as though he’s taken the full force of a blow from a crossbow bolt, but the hym is finally quiet again, satisfied for now.

The floor creaks, and Jaskier lies down at his back. Geralt stiffens, but before he can pull away, Jaskier wraps his arms around him and presses his lips to the point where Geralt’s shoulder meets his spine.

“I don’t know what’s gone wrong,” he says. “Whatever happened with those bandits. I don’t know whether you’re sick or hurt or cursed or something else. I’m not oblivious, Geralt. I can see the injuries you aren’t taking care of. I know you haven’t gotten a full night of sleep in weeks. I can tell when you’re pushing me away on purpose. It’s the why I don’t understand. Are you trying to make yourself miserable?”

 _Maybe. I don’t know. Yes_.

The hym shrieks, digging its claws into his chest. He winces and it retreats a little.

“Leave me alone, Jaskier.”

He tries to shrug off his arm, but Jaskier only holds tighter.

“No.”

The hym’s claws are piercing now. Soon they’ll draw blood.

“Get off, Jaskier.”

“Not until you talk to me.”

“I don’t owe you a thing.” He tears himself out of Jaskier’s grip – a little too roughly, judging by his hiss of pain and surprise. Geralt scrambles to his feet. Behind him, Jaskier pushes himself upright, the hurt plain on his face.

“The fuck is wrong with you, Geralt?”

Geralt can only shrug. The pain in his chest is receding, only to be replaced by his horror at hurting Jaskier. He should leave. Get away from Jaskier before he can harm him further.

“I ask you what’s wrong, because something is _obviously_ wrong, and you say you don’t _owe me anything_? I’m trying to help you, but you won’t even fucking talk to me. You won’t even tell me what happened to you. You just keep trying to pretend everything’s fine.”

Geralt can’t meet Jaskier’s eyes. Jaskier has always had the uncanny ability to guess what Geralt isn’t telling him.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—I shouldn’t have yelled at you.”

Jaskier looks up at him. “This isn’t you. Something’s wrong.”

So perceptive, always, even when he doesn’t realize it.

“You should stay here,” Geralt says, choosing his words carefully. “I’ll leave tomorrow. You won’t have to worry about me.”

Jaskier laughs bitterly. “Do you think I forget about you the moment you’re out of sight? Of course I’m not leaving. I’m coming with you.”

“No, you’re not.”

“You’re in no state to go off by yourself. You haven’t been for weeks.”

Jaskier stands and takes the few steps forward until he’s standing nose-to-nose with Geralt.

“I am not letting you leave here alone only to hear in a few weeks that a witcher’s been killed on some contract. I’m not. And maybe—” He stops abruptly, dropping his face into his hands. “Fuck. Maybe I can’t stop that from happening anyway. But I won’t walk away from you. As tempting as you’re trying to make it right now.”

Geralt can’t answer, because the hym’s poison is choking him, filling his mouth with bile and broken glass. He shakes his head. No. Don’t follow me. Don’t be witness to this.

The fight seems to drain out of Jaskier all at once, leaving him pale and tired.

“Let’s just...go to bed. Sleep this off. See where we are in the morning.”

Geralt nods. He doubts the hym will let him sleep, but he can do that much. Wait until morning before he must break Jaskier’s heart.

Jaskier nods back, touching Geralt’s arm one last time before turning back to his bed. Geralt lies down on the other with his back to the room. He waits until he hears Jaskier’s breathing deepen in sleep.

When he’s sure Jaskier is asleep, he rolls up his sleeve and sinks his teeth into the flesh of his arm, biting down harder and harder until he tastes blood and the thoughts in his head white out with pain.

The hym quiets, finally satisfied.

*

Geralt lets Jaskier follow him out of the city the next morning.

He knows this can’t go on. The longer he resists the hym, the harder it becomes, and the more Jaskier suspects. He’s putting him in danger in more ways than one. Geralt would never harm him, even accidentally – and it’s his pain the hym wants, not Jaskier’s – but he attracts danger, and in his distracted state he might well be unable to protect anyone who stands too close. In any case, Jaskier has already suffered enough as a result of his mistake. He’s done enough damage as it is.

He’ll fight the hym.

He’ll try, anyway. For Jaskier, he’ll try.

“Are you going to tell me what the hell last night was about?” Jaskier asks as they pack up their things.

“No.”

“But you’re letting me come with you anyway.”

“I won’t stop you.”

“So, what are we doing now, then?”

“Taking a break,” Geralt lies. “Like you suggested. No more contracts for a while.”

Jaskier looks askance at him but doesn’t press the question any further.

It takes them several days to get far enough away from civilization for Geralt’s liking. Jaskier doesn’t ask where they’re going, just watches him, constantly, with terrible concern in his eyes. He says nothing about the fact that Geralt stops far earlier than usual to set up camp, either. Only once they’re sitting by the fire does he venture into conversation.

“You’d tell me if it was something I did, wouldn’t you?”

Geralt’s head snaps up. “What?”

“Your...whatever’s going on with you. You’d tell me if it was something to do with me, right?”

“Jaskier—no. I’m not angry with you. I swear.”

“Ah. Good.” A tiny flicker of relief flashes across Jaskier’s face before he can contain it.

Geralt sighs, furious with himself. “I’m sorry. Sorry you’ve had to put up with all of this. With me.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say I _had_ to,” Jaskier says. “But it is nice, I suppose, that you know when you’re being an ass.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’d rather you just tell me what the problem was, you know.”

“I can’t.”

“Yeah,” Jaskier sighs. “At least you’re talking again.”

By way of response, Geralt tears off a chunk of bread and passes the larger share to Jaskier.

“Thanks.”

Geralt even manages a smile in return.

With the sun setting on their camp and Jaskier at least slightly reassured, it nearly feels like normal again. Nearly. Jaskier brings out his lute and sets to work writing lyrics, seeming delighted by Geralt’s feedback in the form of a grunt or raised eyebrow. Apparently not wanting to let the moment pass, he stays awake long after darkness falls, writing by the light of the fire until finally, finally, he falls asleep.

Geralt starts walking. If this works, he’ll be back before Jaskier wakes. If it doesn’t, well, Roach knows the way back to the nearest town, and there’s more than enough food for one person. Jaskier will be fine, even if he doesn’t understand what’s happened.

All Geralt knows to do with pain is to get it over with. No sense in avoiding it. Just let it hit and pick up the pieces afterwards.

If he’s to survive this, his only choice is to fight the hym. It’s a long shot, he knows—he’s never heard of a witcher possessed by one, let alone able to defeat one while also being drained by it. Hyms are difficult enough to fight when attached to ordinary humans. But he has to try, at least, because if the hym succeeds in driving him to madness, he will be a danger even to other witchers. This way, it will be him or the hym.

The hym, of course, knows all his plans as soon as he does, and it has no desire to lose its host.

 _Fool_ , it hisses. _Do you think you can drive away your guilt with a sword?_

Geralt ignores it. The hym will try to incapacitate, but not kill him, walking a fine balance between feeding on his pain and finishing him off.

_And what will it matter if you manage it? Will it make you other than you are, ridding yourself of me?_

Geralt screws his eyes shut, forcing his feet to keep moving forward. It would be easier to end things now, far easier than trying to fight. Fall on his blade and eliminate the hym’s only source of life.

_Coward. You seek only to avoid your own wrongdoing._

“I’m saving Jaskier,” he says aloud. “Keeping him from being caught up in this.”

The hym laughs, long and cold like branches scraping ice.

 _You still want to be the hero. Haven’t you learned otherwise?_ _That you cannot be, that nothing_ _of_ _you is heroic?_

Geralt slams his fist into his thigh, the pain jolting him back to clarity. He knows he only has a few moments to build the fire and generate enough light to drive the hym out before it saps his resolve again.

He lights the kindling with Igni, pushing aside the throbbing pain in his leg. The hym rears before him, black and horned and shimmering like oil.

_You strengthen me even as you weaken yourself. Is this how you plan to win?_

Geralt draws his sword. Already, his shoulders ache in protest. He doesn’t know if he can do this. Fight the hym, keep the fire lit, hold himself together—until one of them falls.

The first swipe of the hym’s claws catches him off guard and chills him to the core. He gasps for breath, forcing himself to his feet and out of its reach. The fire acts as a barrier, allowing him a moment to find his balance. But only a moment.

The hym hisses and swipes again. Geralt blocks the blow with his sword and dodges aside, keeping the fire between them. The hym draws back as though burned at the touch of silver.

They repeat this sequence for a while, again and again, circling each other until the fire dims and Geralt is forced to divert his attention.

Immediately, the hym strikes, but Geralt is ready and manages to block most of the blow. What slips through his guard, though, is enough to freeze his blood in his veins and slow his thoughts to a crawl. The hym presses its advantage, pushing him back until he stumbles, landing painfully on one knee. He throws his sword arm up just in time to block the swiftly descending claws.

As he struggles to regain his feet, he remembers Jaskier’s face from that night in the inn, when Geralt pushed him away. The look of shock, hurt, bordering on disgust.

_What the fuck is wrong with you, Geralt?_

His arm shakes. He has no illusions about what he is, has always been. Witchers are trained to become monsters in the service of killing monsters; it’s inevitable.

But the hym was right. He is still, after everything, trying to be a hero. To Jaskier. To Ciri. Even to Yennefer, though she has seen more of him than anyone else.

And, for some reason, they have all gone along with it.

By playing the hero, he has left even more wreckage in his wake than if he just accepted what he was.

Just when he thinks his arm will give out, the hym backs off abruptly, retreating into the darkness beyond the fire. He can feel the distance between them growing as distinctly as he feels the ground underneath him, his strength returning in a rush. He drops to his hands and knees while the ache in his chest subsides. For a moment, he thinks it’s over, that the hym has what it wants. Relief floods him as his head begins to clear.

Then the hym appears before him and sinks its claws into his chest, lifting him off the ground. He grabs for his sword, but too slowly—it’s already far out of his reach.

His head and back strike the trunk of a tree as the hym pins him, slowly crushing the breath from his lungs. The whispers grow to a roar. Behind the hym, the fire sputters, and dies, fading to barely visible embers.

Geralt tries to stand, but he can’t catch his breath. His legs, twisted beneath him, refuse to respond to his commands.

_You owe those you have wronged your suffering. It is the least you can offer them._

_Why?_ Geralt thinks bleakly. _It won’t make a difference either way_.

 _Of course not. You’re long past being able to_ help _anyone. At least give them – give_ me – _the satisfaction of your pain_.

Geralt has no more strength to resist. No longer impaled on the hym’s claws, at once real and unreal, he remains upright only by the support of the tree behind him. _Just let it end_.

 _Not yet_.

His sword out of reach, his legs immobile, Geralt has only one weapon left. He fumbles at the fastenings of his arm guards, resorting to using his teeth to free his limbs from the studded leather. Arms free, he draws the dagger from his belt and, keeping his thoughts blank, drags the blade across his wrist.

_No._

Another cut, deeper than the first. The hym roars in anger when it realizes what he's done. Then another, and another, until the knife falls from his hand.

_No. Stop!_

Then nothing.

*

Geralt is simply gone when Jaskier wakes. He untangles himself from his blankets, stands, and looks around the little clearing where they’ve made camp, confused and uneasy. Geralt is nowhere to be seen, though his pack rests where he left it the night before. Right beside his steel sword.

Jaskier feels a flash of panic. Where would Geralt have disappeared to with only one of his swords? Surely he hasn’t decided to leave Jaskier behind after all, not after last night when everything seemed to be going back to normal.

From behind him, Roach whickers, and Jaskier forces himself to breathe. Geralt would never just abandon Roach, Jaskier, _and_ his weapon. He must be somewhere nearby. And there’s no sign of a fight, so he must have gone of his own free will.

Jaskier tries to think like Geralt would. Where would he go so early in the morning in the middle of nowhere?

Unfortunately, Jaskier doesn’t also have Geralt’s heightened senses to guide him. And maybe the simplest explanation, that Geralt has only gone to deal with something nasty stalking the forest around them, is also the best one. He resolves to wait. Geralt will be back; he has to be. He just needs to be patient.

But the morning stretches on, and Geralt doesn’t return.

Now Jaskier starts to feel real fear. He’s picked up a few things in his time with Geralt, but he knows he won’t last more than a few days in the wilderness on his own. He could take Roach and ride back to the last town, but what about Geralt?

“Okay,” he says out loud, vaguely in Roach’s direction. “Okay. Here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to walk…that way. If I keep the sun to our right, we’ll be able to find our way back. And if we don’t find him before the sun starts to set, we’ll come back and try heading north in the morning. Right.”

He runs his hands over his face, trying to breathe normally, trying to think. Then he walks over to his pack and makes sure he has a bit of water and food, at least. He adds a random selection of Geralt’s potions and elixirs for good measure. For a moment, he considers taking Geralt’s sword, too, but he wouldn’t know what to do with it and it would only slow him down. He pats Roach on the shoulder.

“Come on, girl. We’ll be back soon. I hope.”

He climbs into Roach’s saddle and sets off into the woods. She snorts but doesn’t otherwise protest his handling her.

He rides for hours. Nothing horrible or beastly jumps out at him, but he startles at every rustle of wind and crack of snapping twig anyway. He doesn’t dare call out Geralt’s name. It occurs to him that this is the longest he’s ever been on Roach’s back, with or without Geralt.

All too soon, the sun begins to set. He keeps going until the last possible moment before he turns around, praying he still has time to make it back to camp before it gets dark.

 _Maybe Geralt will be there_ , he thinks to himself. _Maybe this is all a misunderstanding, and he’ll shout at me for wandering off into the woods for no reaso_ _n. With his horse, no less._

But the campsite is empty when he returns, as he knew it would be. He feeds Roach, makes himself eat something for dinner, and curls up by the fire, tears trickling down his cheeks. He cries partly out of fear for Geralt, partly out of terror that he’ll be eaten alive before morning by the first forest creature that happens upon him.

When the sun rises, he’s as exhausted as he was the night before, and no less scared, but he’s alive.

He starts off again in the opposite direction, wondering at what point he’ll have to admit defeat and seek civilization again. _Don’t think about that_ , he orders himself. _Think about how apologetic Geralt is going to be when he realizes the awful scare he’s given you_.

It seems to grow darker the further he rides, the trees clustering thicker and closer together. He decides that he should head back after he breaks for lunch so that he’ll have time to search either east or west of the campsite before night falls.

Just when the sun is reaching its peak, he hears something. Breathing.

No, gasping. Harsh, labored breaths.

He follows the sound to its source. Geralt, slumped over beneath a tree. Geralt, bleeding. Bleeding out.

“No. No, no, _no_ , Geralt—”

He’s not aware of crossing the distance between them, only of falling to his knees beside Geralt.

“Jaskier,” he pants. “No. Don’t—don’t touch me.”

“I have to touch you, you’re bleeding.”

Geralt’s face is bloodless, his eyes half-shut. His breath comes in short, ragged gasps, each one an effort.

“Stay with me, Geralt. Please. Stay with me.”

Jaskier moves to pry Geralt’s arms away from his torso, thinking the wound must be in his chest or side. Then, to his horror, he sees that Geralt’s arms are slashed to ribbons, bleeding from half a dozen different cuts on each side. They remind Jaskier of the slashes on Geralt’s arm after he made wishes of the djinn in Rinde – he’d noticed the three identical marks after it was all over – but these are even longer and deeper. Under the blood, there are more scars – not the raised white marks of old injuries, but fresh, red wounds.

He hears a moan. _Geralt_ , he thinks, for an instant, before he realizes the sound is coming from his own mouth.

“Geralt, what have you _done_?”

“I’m sorry,” Geralt breathes. “Just go, Jaskier. Don’t…don’t try to save me. I tried fighting it. I tried…I’m sorry.”

“Fighting? Fighting what?” Jaskier looks around wildly, half-hoping some monster will spring out of the undergrowth and provide an explanation for all this. An explanation that makes _sense_. That means Geralt didn’t do this to himself. Jaskier starts stripping one of his spare shirts into lengths of fabric, afraid that he won’t have enough to stop the bleeding from all of Geralt’s wounds. “What are you fighting?”

“Jaskier, stop—”

“Help me, Geralt! You’ve got to help me, or you’re going to die, do you understand that?”

“I’m sorry…”

“Stop fucking apologizing! I am not going to let you die!”

Jaskier suddenly remembers the elixirs he shoved in his pack. Keeping one hand pressed as tightly as he can to Geralt’s wrist, he turns the bag upside down, spilling the contents on the ground.

“Which one of these will help you right now? Answer me, Geralt. Don’t even think about lying to me.”

Geralt struggles to focus on the vials. “That one.”

One-handed, Jaskier uncorks it and tips the contents down Geralt’s throat. He doesn’t know what he expects to happen – Geralt’s blood to stop flowing? The wounds to close up? – but the blood keeps soaking through the makeshift bandages as quickly as before.

“It’s not working.”

“It is. It…buys us…time. It doesn’t work miracles.”

Jaskier looks up, meeting Geralt’s eyes for the first time that afternoon. In them, Jaskier sees fear. Sorrow. And something else. Madness. For an instant, it freezes him solid.

“Get on the horse,” he says.

“Jask—”

“Get on. The horse.”

By sheer adrenaline alone, Jaskier manages to drag Geralt upright and into the saddle. He jumps up behind him before he can fall, digging his heels into Roach’s side. Then it’s all he can do to hold on for dear life to the reins and Geralt’s nearly dead weight at the same time. By the time they arrive at the campsite, Roach is panting and drenched in sweat. Geralt is barely conscious and even more deathly pale than usual, even paler than after he’s taken elixirs. Jaskier doesn’t so much help him from the horse as break his fall to the ground.

He snatches up Geralt’s pack and tears through it until he finds the bottle he’s looking for. He holds it in front of Geralt’s face.

“This will help stop the bleeding, yes? I’ve seen you put it on wounds before. Will it work?”

Geralt groans, his eyes drifting shut.

“No—Geralt! Wake up! Will it work?”

But Geralt has already slipped into unconsciousness.

Jaskier doesn’t have a choice. He uncorks the bottle and pours as much as he dares onto Geralt’s left arm.

Geralt cries out, his back arching as the wounds on his arm foam and hiss. Jaskier pins him down and pulls up his other sleeve, a task he’s only able to accomplish because Geralt is so weakened. The witcher writhes underneath him as he empties the bottle over his other arm. This time, his scream is inhuman. Jaskier fears for a terrible moment that the shock alone will kill him.

The potion’s effect is horrific, as though Geralt has put his forearms directly into a fire and held them there. They look more like cuts of raw meat than human flesh. Jaskier only barely resists the urge to be sick. Geralt, his teeth still clenched, keeps twitching and making gasps of pain deep in his throat long after the wounds stop foaming. But the bleeding stops.

Exhausted, Jaskier rolls to the side, a sob escaping his lips.

“Why, Geralt? Why would you do that?”

Geralt either can’t or won’t answer him.

Jaskier sits up slowly. He needs to clean and dress Geralt’s wounds properly. He needs to tend to Roach. He needs to change his shirt, which is soaked with Geralt’s blood.

All he wants is to close his eyes and wake up to find this was all a nightmare.

Somehow he finds the strength to do all the things that need to be done. Geralt, only just clinging to consciousness, is neither a help nor a hindrance to his efforts. Though he hisses through his teeth when Jaskier cleans the cuts on his arms, he doesn’t flinch or pull away. He doesn’t speak, either.

Jaskier avoids looking him in the eyes for too long. He seems to be seeing something Jaskier doesn’t, something equally terrible and transfixing. Or maybe it’s only the shock of pain and blood loss. Either way, it scares Jaskier the way he won’t stop shaking, how he doesn’t respond to Jaskier’s touch or voice beyond simple reflex.

He focuses instead on sewing and bandaging Geralt’s wounds, though the sight and smell of blood make his stomach churn and his hands unsteady. Nausea comes and goes in waves, making him gag, but nothing comes up.

Eventually, he realizes Geralt has stopped shaking and is watching him through half-lidded eyes. Jaskier looks back, afraid of what he might see in his expression.

“I thought you were going to die,” he says, because it’s all he can think to say. "Don't die, all right?"

Geralt doesn’t answer him, but his mouth tightens in an even thinner line. Eventually, his eyes drift closed.

When he finishes bandaging Geralt’s wounds, Jaskier busies himself with the fire, keeping one eye on him the whole time. They need to eat – Jaskier hasn’t eaten since dawn, and Geralt certainly needs food – but the best their limited supplies have to offer is stale bread and dried meat. Jaskier gathers the little they have and goes over to sit next to him.

Geralt opens his eyes when Jaskier approaches, his expression…Wary? Apologetic? Simply exhausted? Jaskier doesn’t know.

“You need to eat,” he says.

He tears off a piece of bread and hands it to Geralt. Water proves more difficult. Geralt can’t grasp the cup firmly enough to lift it, and Jaskier doesn’t even bother trying to do it for him. He ends up dipping the bread in the water and hoping it’s enough.

Once he’s eaten, Geralt looks less on the brink of death, though deep hollows remain under his eyes. With effort, and against Jaskier’s better judgment, he even manages to sit up, though his spine curves forward as though a weight is tied around his neck.

Jaskier is always astounded by Geralt’s ability to recover from even the most grievous wounds, but he fears this will be too much for him. How many hours did Geralt wait under that tree, balancing on a knife’s point between life and death? Jaskier can still hear his agonized scream from when he poured the elixir into his wounds ringing in his ears.

He wonders, not for the first time, what could possibly be going on in Geralt’s head, but he’s as afraid of the answer as he is desperate for it. He can’t even begin to think how to ask. Was this the plan all along? Did he always intend to walk into the woods and not come out of them?

“You should sleep,” he says instead.

Geralt shoulders’ hunch further. When he speaks, he addresses the ground rather than Jaskier.

“I can’t.”

“I know it feels that way, but you lost a lot of blood—”

“I can’t sleep. I _can’t_. I—” Geralt cuts off, searching for words he doesn’t have.

“What do you mean, you can’t—?”

“Dammit, Jaskier, you can’t fix this!”

Jaskier looks away so Geralt doesn’t see the tears that spring to his eyes. He can feel Geralt withdrawing from him. Building up a wall against all help. The same as he’s been doing for the past several weeks, the weeks that led them here.

“At least let me try. At least…at least tell me what’s going on. I found you _dying_ , for fuck’s sake.”

When Geralt doesn’t reply, Jaskier swipes away his tears and turns back to face him.

“I’m always afraid of losing you, but I always thought it would be in a fight. Struck down in the midst of battling a monster, or something. Not…gods, Geralt! Not like this.”

He takes a shuddering breath.

“You said you tried to fight it. That you couldn’t. So let me help. This is the one time I might actually be able to make a difference.”

“It’s not what you think, Jaskier. It isn’t that simple.”

“Then talk to me! Tell me what it is. What you’re fighting.”

Geralt closes his eyes. He's silent so long Jaskier thinks he's stopped talking altogether.

“It’s a hym. A demon, sort of, that feeds on the guilty. It transferred to me when I killed its last host.”

“Its last host – one of the bandits?” Jaskier realizes. “So the thing you’re fighting...it is a monster after all? Why didn’t you just say so?”

“Less of a typical monster. More like a curse.”

“Then we’ll break it!”

Geralt opens his eyes, finally looking over at him.

“Jaskier, I can’t.” He lifts his bandaged arms. “I tried.”

“So you’re just giving up?” Jaskier cries. “Wait. Wait a minute. What do you mean, it feeds on the guilty? Guilty of what?”

“Hyms only attach themselves to—to those who have done evil. They make them relive their worst memories, the things they most regret, then grow stronger on their misery and pain.”

“Gods. That’s…horrible. But, Geralt, why you? You’re not evil—far from it!”

“I know who I am, Jaskier. And what I've done.”

“So do I. You’ve told me,” Jaskier counters. “Is this about Blaviken?”

Geralt gives an awful, hollow laugh. “No. Yes. Take your pick. There’s no shortage of things I regret. So no shortage of food for the hym. As long as I’m alive, that is.”

Jaskier shivers, despite the warm night.

“You’d better tell me everything. Start from the beginning. How do hyms work? How do you stop them?”

“Jaskier…”

“Please, Geralt. Just humor me.”

Geralt sighs. “There are two ways to kill a hym. A witcher would normally spend all night with the victim, draw the hym out and force it to fight. I tried that, but I can’t fight it in two places at once – in and outside of my head. It’s too strong.”

“And the other way?”

“Hyms can be tricked. Forced to abandon their host for another, someone who believes they’ve done wrong, but hasn’t. But it’s nearly impossible.” Geralt looks over at Jaskier. “A hym would never abandon me for you.”

“So…we either find another witcher who can kill the hym, or we come up with a different way to trick it. Is that right?”

“Another witcher would be best. At least then we could be certain the problem was solved. But we’re not likely to find one.”

“What about Kaer Morhen?”

Geralt shakes his head. “Too far. I wouldn’t make it.”

“What does that mean, Geralt? You said…you said it feeds on guilt. On pain. It can’t feed if you’re dead, right? It needs you alive.”

“It’s the only way to stop it.” His voice drops to a whisper. “I have to stop it. I—I owe that to you.”

“No. _No_ , Geralt. There has to be another way.”

“There isn’t.”

“You’re not thinking straight. You lost a lot of blood, and that _thing_ is in your head—”

“It will only get worse from here. You can’t know what it’s like. Already I can’t sleep, can’t think. Pain is the only thing that satisfies it—for a moment. An instant. And then it’s back, stronger than before. It will drive me mad or it will kill me, Jaskier. Those are the only options. And a witcher doesn’t have the luxury of going mad. Do you understand?”

“No! No, I don’t understand. You’re asking me to—”

“—to let me die. You don’t have to kill me; I won’t ask that of you. Once I’m dead, the hym will have nothing to feed on. You’ll be safe.”

Jaskier’s mind races even as his body struggles to hold back sobs.

“How—how long will the hym live without something to feed on?”

“Not long.” Geralt’s voice turns low, gentle. “It can’t survive without a host. Especially not in the light. It’ll be over quickly. You…I won’t be putting you in danger anymore. Yen and Ciri…they’ll be free to live their lives. No longer tied to me by fate.”

“Stop. Geralt—”

“I’ve lived a long time, Jaskier. More than I’ve—than anyone deserves. This is as fitting an end as any, for a witcher.”

“Don’t say that!” Jaskier grabs Geralt by the shoulders, forcing him to look up. “You say it can’t survive in the light without a source of energy. All we have to do is drive it out, convince it – convince _you_ – that you aren’t the source it thinks you are. Even for a moment.”

Geralt shakes his head. “How?”

“We fight it. Together. I’ll stay with you until it’s gone.”

“Jaskier…”

“Please. Please try, Geralt.”

“You don’t know what you’re asking.”

“I do. I know it will be hard. I know it will hurt. I know you’re already fighting it, and you think it’s more than you can bear. But we can beat it. If you need to see this as some kind of atonement—no. No, fuck that. Do this for me. Do it because I’m asking you to. _Please_.”

“Jaskier, it’s too strong.”

“No. Not for both of us. I know you, Geralt. I know you aren’t what the hym tells you you are. I just have to convince you of that.”

Geralt’s eyes drift shut. He’s quiet so long that Jaskier fears he’s given up entirely, too tired to even bother arguing with him. At last, he looks up.

“Fine. We’ll try it. I—we’ll need to hold it off until morning. You’ll have to keep me awake, no matter what. And keep the fire going.”

“Anything.” Jaskier moves one hand to the side of Geralt’s face. “Can you rest now? Before it gets dark?”

Geralt’s mouth twists. “I don’t know. It’ll attack, particularly if it senses I’m fighting it.”

“You should try, at least. I’ll wake you when the dreams start.”

Geralt hesitates, then nods.

Despite his reluctance, he’s plainly exhausted, and he falls asleep within minutes of resting his head in Jaskier’s lap. When he’s sure Geralt’s breathing has deepened, Jaskier lets go of the tears he’s been forcing back all afternoon, crying silently as he runs his fingers through Geralt’s hair.

It’s not as if he’s never imagined Geralt’s death. Their lives dance too close to the subject to go unmentioned. He’d just always figured it would be quick. Sudden. He never imagined it would be like this, this long stretch of misery, with Geralt losing hope and so obviously in pain. All this time, Geralt was fighting for his life, and Jaskier wrote it off as a bad mood.

To tell the truth, Jaskier isn’t at all sure that their plan will work himself. He believes wholeheartedly that Geralt is _good_ – fundamentally, consistently, desperately good – but he doesn’t delude himself that Geralt’s actions are faultless. More than that, though, he knows that Geralt’s capacity for cruelty is turned on no one else as often as himself. Jaskier doesn’t know whether he can convince him to let go of that, hym or no hym.

Well. Jaskier has spent all of his adult life singing the praises of Geralt of Rivia. Surely if anyone is up to the challenge, it’s him.

Geralt’s eyes begin to move beneath their lids, assessing some danger Jaskier can only imagine. He waits until Geralt’s fingers start to twitch before squeezing his shoulder to wake him.

“You’re dreaming, Geralt. Wake up.”

With obvious difficulty, Geralt opens his eyes, blinking until he focuses on Jaskier. He moves as if to sit up, then seems to think better of it.

“What time is it?”

“Still early evening. You’ve got a couple of hours before dusk.”

Geralt is quiet for a while, long enough that Jaskier thinks he’s fallen asleep again.

“Jaskier, are you sure about this?”

“Yes, I’m sure.” He has to be. “Go back to sleep.”

The nightmares come faster this time. Geralt seems not to recognize him when he wakes, staring wildly around the camp in a blind panic.

“It’s all right, Geralt. It’s just me. I’m here.”

Geralt moves to rub his eyes, and the sight of the bandages on his arms seems to remind him where he is and why.

“Is it time?”

“Almost. Let me up—the fire’s gone out.”

He returns to Geralt with more food and water. Geralt already looks spent, in spite of the few hours of sleep he managed to get.

“Tell me when it gets bad,” Jaskier says. “Don’t try to fight it yourself.”

“What will you do?”

“I’ll think of something.”

He sits down next to Geralt, close enough to brush shoulders. Geralt leans into him, more from physical exhaustion than anything else, Jaskier thinks. He chooses to take it as a good sign.

Night falls too quickly. He moves behind Geralt, wraps his arms around his waist and holds him close. For now, Jaskier’s only tasks are to stay awake and keep him alive. They will worry about the rest closer to morning.

Geralt is silent, responding only when Jaskier checks to make sure he’s awake. Every now and then he shakes his head suddenly, in a gesture reminiscent of Roach flicking her ears to chase off flies.

Jaskier has his face pressed to Geralt’s shoulder, though he’s supporting most of the witcher’s weight at this point. He looks up.

“Talk to me. What’s going on?”

Geralt’s eyes glow eerily in the firelight.

“I can hear it.”

“What’s it saying?”

“That this is a mistake. It won’t work, I’ll only hurt you. More than I already have.”

“Don’t listen to it. How can I help? Do you want me to sing? Talk to you?”

Geralt dips his head. It might be a nod, or it might be a sign that he’s slipping.

“Talking, then. You say you’ve hurt me, but what about all the times you’ve saved me? I’d be dead by the side of a djinn-infested lake if not for you. Or executed by elves. Or just murdered by ordinary bandits, take your pick.”

Geralt shifts uncomfortably in his arms.

“Not working? All right. Well, how about this: I forbid you from dying, because I really enjoyed sitting by the campfire with you last night, and I like drinking terrible wine in shitty inns with you, and I can’t do those things again if you’re dead.” Jaskier stops suddenly, surprised by the tears which suddenly constrict his throat. He swallows hard.

“I don’t just follow you around for the song material, you know. Are you still with me?”

“Yes.”

“And the hym?”

“Yes.” Geralt reaches up and touches Jaskier’s hand with his fingertips, like he’s checking he’s really there. “Keep talking?”

Jaskier tells Geralt everything he can remember about the naming ceremony, how the mother insisted it was customary to have music despite no existence of any tradition of the sort, how the father grumbled at the expense of a bard, how the countless aunts bickered and spread gossip not quite out of each other’s hearing. When he begins to run out of things to say he starts in on the varieties of wine they drank that evening, the origins of the grapes and the wood of the barrels that aged them, pulling all the knowledge he’s ever collected about wine from his memory. He knows that Geralt doesn’t care what he says; he just needs to keep talking. But even his one-sided conversational abilities have their limit, and he can tell Geralt is drifting.

Jaskier switches tactics again and starts to sing the first harmless tune he can think of. He works his way through the lightest parts of his repertoire, songs of springtime and summer, poems of love found and won. He doesn’t touch the songs about Geralt, not yet. Geralt doesn’t speak, but his shoulders begin to tremble.

All too soon, Jaskier’s voice starts to falter, too. It’s hardly his longest performance – not by a long shot – but he’s never performed under this much emotional duress before, his throat already raw from crying and so much talking.

“Give me a moment,” he whispers in Geralt’s ear. “I’ll be right back, I promise.” He presses his lips for an instant to the crown of Geralt’s head, reluctant to let go of him.

“Wait.” Geralt twists to look up at him. “Don’t stop.”

“I won’t. I’m coming back.”

He races to the other side of the fire, where his lute sits with the rest of their things. He snatches it up and hurries back over to Geralt.

“See? I’m back.” He sits cross-legged in front of Geralt, letting his hands take over where his voice fails.

Geralt tries; he does. But Jaskier can see he’s failing. He forces his eyes open when Jaskier nudges him, eats when Jaskier puts food in his hands, tries to focus on Jaskier’s music instead of the hym’s whispering voice. But he is so tired, and Jaskier seems so very far away.

He doesn’t even realize he’s clawing at the bandages on his wrists until Jaskier seizes his hands.

“Enough. Enough, Geralt.”

“I have to. It helps. I—”

“Shh.” Jaskier squeezes Geralt’s fingers, presses his thumbs into his palms.

Geralt squeezes back. The movement pulls at the cuts on his arms, makes them burn. The voice in his head quiets, a little. For a moment.

He feels Jaskier’s fingers under his chin.

“Geralt, wake up. Stay here with me.”

He makes himself meet Jaskier’s eyes.

 _Tell him_ , the hym urges. _Would he look at you like that if he knew the truth?_ _If he knew what you’d done?_

He must be speaking aloud, because Jaskier answers him.

“I do know, Geralt. I know it all. You’ve told me. And I’ve seen it. The good and the bad.” He sighs. “Far more good than bad, you know.”

Geralt shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t make up for what I’ve done.”

“Perhaps not. But the bad doesn’t cancel out the good, either.”

Jaskier leans forward until their foreheads rest against each other’s. He keeps his hold on Geralt’s hands.

“I know you, Geralt. I know you’ve made choices you regret. I know you’ve been forced into impossible situations, corners where you’ve been forced to kill to get yourself out. But I’ve also seen you sacrifice yourself when you thought it would help someone else. More times than I can count. So you’ve made decisions you would give anything to be able to change. That doesn’t mean you deserve to die. No matter what the hym is telling you, not everything is your fault. Right now, your suffering doesn’t help anyone. It doesn’t change the past. It only fuels the hym.”

Geralt would bolt if he wasn’t so tired. He tries to pull his hands away from Jaskier’s grip. Jaskier only holds on tighter.

“Please, Geralt. Try to believe me.”

Geralt shakes his head. “I’m not the person you think I am.” Each word is an effort.

“What if you are? At least consider it. Just for a moment. Please.”

Geralt wants to believe him. But the hym is too strong, the darkness too complete.

And then, Jaskier’s voice:

“Geralt, do you trust me?”

Yes. Yes, he trusts Jaskier, even when he doesn’t trust himself.

Jaskier starts to sing again. Geralt recognizes the tune immediately and flinches back.

“No. Jaskier, don’t—”

Jaskier ignores him. He’s singing about Geralt, all the ballads and epics Geralt tries not to listen to when Jaskier performs in taverns and inns. The ones he wishes were true but knows are exaggerated and idealized. They’re not about him, really. They’re about who Jaskier wishes he was.

But sometimes he wishes, too…

The place in his mind occupied by the hym begins to burn, like a wound being cauterized. Geralt tries to pull away, to retreat, but Jaskier’s voice follows him. Competing with the hym, which howls at him, telling him to see reason, accept the truth. Geralt feels as though he’s being rent in two from the inside.

“I can’t,” he chokes out. “Jaskier, stop. I can’t do this.”

Jaskier’s voice tells him otherwise.

The moment of separation is like having his heart torn from his chest. At first, he thinks they’ve lost. The hym has finally sunk its claws too deep and killed its host.

Then he sees Jaskier standing in front of him, facing the hym.

“Get back. You can’t have him. He isn’t yours.”

The shadow that is the hym writhes between Jaskier and the blazing fire, twisting as the first rays of sunlight begin to touch the clearing. It shrieks horribly, but Jaskier doesn’t so much as wince.

“You chose the wrong host. There’s nothing here for you.”

Geralt’s strength is waning. He can only watch as Jaskier stands against the hym, fragile and human and all too easily snuffed out. He fears this will be his final punishment, watching Jaskier die in a hopeless effort to save him.

He is drowning in deep water. He’s drowning, and Jaskier is the only thing to hold onto, but if he holds on, Jaskier will drown, too. Geralt is not meant to be saved, only for saving others, when he manages to do even that; he knows this.

Behind Geralt, though he does not see it, the sun clears the horizon.

“Go,” Jaskier commands.

And the hym goes.

In an instant, Jaskier is on his knees beside him, all newfound ferocity forgotten. He throws his arms around Geralt's shoulders, cradles his face in his hands.

“I'm here. It’s over. We did it.” Jaskier laughs in shocked relief.

Geralt leans into him and closes his eyes. He knows that they’ve won and he should feel relieved too—or grateful or hopeful or _something_ —but all he feels at that moment is empty.

Jaskier hums low in his throat, seeming to sense that all is not entirely well. It’s not until he brushes the tears from the witcher’s face that Geralt realizes he’s crying. He turns his head away, trying to focus his streaming eyes on the ground beneath him.

“It’s all right,” Jaskier says. “You can sleep now. You must be completely exhausted.”

That much is true; whatever remaining reserves of strength he had been drawing on to that point are fast depleting, leaving him hollowed out. He tries to focus on the pressure of Jaskier’s hand on his shoulder, on the warmth and nearness of him, instead of this cold nothingness.

“You need to sleep, too.”

It takes so much effort to form the words.

Jaskier smiles. “Oh, I will, don’t worry. I don’t think I have much of a choice in that.”

Every fiber of Geralt’s body hurts. His arms most of all, obviously, but there is also the soreness in his legs, the bruising on his back, the tension in his shoulders. His head aches, his chest still feels tight. Even his teeth hurt.

He just wanted it to be over. With the hym gone, he’d hoped—

Again, Jaskier seems to guess at his thoughts.

“What is it?”

Geralt shakes his head. “It doesn’t feel any different.”

“It’s still there?” A note of alarm creeps into Jaskier’s voice. “You can still hear it?”

“No. It’s—” He moves his hand in front of his chest, trying to indicate the constricting feeling which grips his throat and weighs on his shoulders. “Here.”

He risks a glance at Jaskier, who is looking at him, not with pity or fear, but with an expression of attentive concern. Like one might look at something precious that may yet be repaired.

“Perhaps it takes some time to lose its hold. Like a bad dream, or the aftereffects of a poison.”

After a moment, Geralt nods.

“We ought to sleep,” Jaskier says. “I think it will do us both some good.” Gently, he untangles himself and stands up to find their bed rolls. Geralt watches him go unwillingly. 

In his absence, Geralt struggles just to hold his head up, his body protesting the slightest strain he puts on it. Then Jaskier is back and helping him the few steps closer to the fire, so he can lie down on blankets instead of the cold ground. Geralt needs all his support to get even that far, and the realization of his own weakness is terrifying, made only slightly more bearable by the fact that it’s Jaskier helping him and no one else.

Even now, lying by the fire, Jaskier curled up at his back, his mind won’t let him rest. He keeps imagining the hym turning on Jaskier, or some other creature stumbling upon their campsite. His silver sword is lost somewhere out in the woods, not that he would be able to wield it even if he had it. It is his duty to protect Jaskier, not the other way around, yet right now Geralt can hardly sit up unaided.

The places where Jaskier supported him - arm around his waist, hand on his upper arm - feel warmer than the rest of Geralt’s body. Jaskier could hardly be any closer, lying there inches behind him, but he feels far away. Geralt closes his eyes, waiting for exhaustion to overpower his circling thoughts and the throbbing sting in his forearms.

He wakes up under the heaviest blanket they’d brought with them. The fire’s still going, but he still feels chilled to the core, like he’d just emerged from a swim in a frozen lake. He’s as tired as he’d been when he’d fallen asleep and spends a long time thinking about moving before he actually does.

When he turns his head, Jaskier is sitting cross-legged beside him, watching the fire. At the sight of Geralt awake, his whole expression changes – the crease of worry between his brows disappearing, a smile lighting up his eyes.

“Hey.” Even in that single syllable, Geralt hears the hoarseness in his voice. “How are you feeling?”

“Cold.”

“I thought you might be. Blood loss. There’s food, when you’re ready.”

He sits up stiffly, setting off a wave of dizziness. Jaskier catches him, steadying him with a hand on his shoulder.

“Here.”

He hands Geralt a cup warmed by the liquid inside it. It takes both hands to hold it securely, but he manages, which is a relief. He’d feared the tendons in his arms were irrevocably damaged.

“It’s just hot water,” Jaskier says. “I was going to make tea, but you don’t like it, do you?”

Geralt looks up at him, surprised—he’s never said as much.

Jaskier shrugs. “I’ve never seen you drink it, so I just assumed. Was I wrong?”

“No.”

The bitter, herbal flavor reminds him too much of potions and elixirs. Yennefer had brewed something floral, once, which hadn’t been so bad, but it still hadn’t seemed worth the trouble and expense.

“What time is it?”

“Mid-afternoon.” The corner of Jaskier’s mouth twitches. “Of the following day, that is. You slept a long time.”

“Hmm.”

“No dreams?”

Geralt shakes his head. That’s something, at least. Though he wonders how long it will be until he feels whole again. If he ever does. He drains the cup and passes it back to Jaskier.

Then he looks down and sees his hands are slick with blood, like his vision in the woods all over again. He drops the cup, horrified.

“Shit,” Jaskier says, already scrambling to his feet. “One of those cuts has opened up again.”

He’s back in a moment with Geralt’s pack, one hand at his elbow to steady him.

“Lie back. Careful.”

Jaskier undoes the bandages with the same care he would use to tune his lute, even as the color drains from his face and switches to breathing through his mouth. Despite the frightening amount of blood, only one of the cuts has reopened, and compared to the mess that was Geralt’s arms the day before yesterday, it’s relatively easy to stitch. Even though he’s never quite gotten used to it, Jaskier has sewn up more than a few of Geralt’s injuries in the past. He tries to pretend that’s all he’s doing now. Just another fight with a monster. Just another healing wound. Just another scar.

He can see, though, that Geralt is retreating again. Closing pieces of himself off to try to prevent further pain. Jaskier knows that when Geralt complains of the ache in his chest, he's trying to articulate a feeling he has no name for. When Jaskier asks how he’s feeling and Geralt says _cold_ , he means _alone._

He taps the back of Geralt’s hand to get him to meet his gaze.

“Bleeding’s stopped.”

Geralt’s eyes focus on him slowly.

“Do you—” Jaskier stops, swallowing hard. “Now that the hym is gone, do you still feel like dying?”

He doesn’t know if Geralt will answer him, but he doesn’t want to give him the chance to evade the question by asking it any less bluntly.

Geralt looks away, jaw tightening. Jaskier doesn’t press him.

“No,” he says finally, barely audible. “I don’t.”

Jaskier lets out a breath. “Really?”

“I don’t _want_ to die.” His gaze flickers back to Jaskier and then away again. He sighs, breath catching in his throat. “It’s—the hym didn’t say anything untrue.”

Jaskier wants to protest more than anything, but he makes himself stay silent so that Geralt will continue.

“It said nothing I don’t already know. And think about. And I—” his voice drops even lower, “—I don’t know how long I can live with that. I don’t know if I can go back on the Path after this—I don’t even know if I can hold a sword.”

Jaskier squeezes his hand as gently as he can. “If that’s true, we’ll figure something out.”

“No.” Geralt closes his eyes. “Jaskier, if I’m not a witcher, then I’m only a mutant and a killer. A monster.”

“That’s not true. You are not a monster,” Jaskier replies, low and fierce. “You’re not.”

“What, then? If I’m human, then I’m a common murderer. If inhuman, then I’m an animal, acting on instinct alone. With the same results either way. I’m not—I can’t be anything else.”

Jaskier squeezes his hand tighter, almost painfully, as if it were possible for him to hurt Geralt.

“You’re Geralt of fucking Rivia. The one that I love.”

Geralt laughs, bitter and choking. “I’m not from Rivia. I never lived there. I learned the accent to make the lie seem more convincing. I wasn’t even born Geralt. It’s all a pretense. A human disguise. Every witcher needs one.”

“I know all that. And I wasn’t born Jaskier. What of it?” He reaches out with his free hand, turning Geralt’s face back to him. “You took what you were given and fashioned your own life out of it. That is a strength, not a failing.”

“It doesn’t work like that. Not for me.”

“Yes, Geralt. It does. I promise you it does.” He sighs, running his thumb over Geralt’s cheekbone. “Can you sit up?”

After a moment, Geralt nods. Jaskier helps pull him upright and wraps him in as tight a hug as he dares, careful of Geralt’s injuries but pressing his palms to the witcher’s spine and holding him close. They’re both exhausted and bloody and on the edge of tears, but for one moment when he closes his eyes Jaskier can forget all of that.

Geralt relaxes into his arms degree by degree, letting out a long and shaky breath.

“I don’t know what to do now,” he admits. “I don’t know how—”

“You don’t have to do anything. We can stay right here as long as you like.”

“After that.”

“We’ll go to Oxenfurt. My winter quarters. And we’ll find a nice stable for Roach.” Jaskier shifts to sit more comfortably while supporting Geralt, continuing despite the hoarseness in his voice.

“First thing, we’ll take a hot bath. Then we’ll eat something—real food, not dry bread and meat. Sit by the fire and sleep in a real bed, as long as we like. As long as it takes us to figure out what to do next. All right?”

Geralt nods into his shoulder. “I can do that.”

“Good.” He traces small circles into Geralt’s back. More quietly, he adds, “I know it won’t be easy, and that it will still take time. Just—I don’t want things to ever come to this again. Tell me you know that you can talk to me when things are bad.”

“I know.”

“Okay.”

“Jaskier.”

Geralt suddenly leans back, and at first Jaskier thinks he’s going to push him away, but instead he takes Jaskier’s hands in his and dips his head until their foreheads rest against each other’s.

“I...I’m glad you were here.”

Jaskier laughs softly, though his eyes are watering. “Me too.”

“You make things..." Geralt trails off, then sighs. "Better. You make things better.”

The tears spill over onto Jaskier’s cheeks again, closing up his throat. He nods. Though his eyes are closed, he thinks Geralt may be crying, too.

He takes a deep breath, trying to steady his voice. “I love you. You know that too, right?”

Geralt’s hands squeezing his are all the answer he needs.

**Author's Note:**

> aaaaa I am incapable of finishing my existing fics I can only write new horrible situations for Geralt to be in
> 
> The reveal:  
> In addition to being super depressed and traumatized, Geralt is possessed a hym, or a demon that feeds on the victim's pain, both emotional and physical.


End file.
